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so now that poetry
has died of neglect
in it’s most comfortable
bed of unchallenged mass
consumption of passive

let us now at least acknowledge
the fact released today that is
of utmost human importance

the world wild life fund has
found that since 1979 52 percent
of the amount of wildlife

have perished

the great artist
at the end of his life
said about his art

it was something
to do

I said to the carpenter
chop down my shadow
and turn me into something useful
because this body does not give fruit.

the seven runners

and the ancient persian
poet told me

do not be misled by
the universe

you are bigger than
you seem

even though you seem
so small in the face
of it all

what is the role
of the poet

homer was once

to help

I saw Arthur Rimbaud
on the bus and he
still looked frustrated
with his pale white skin
the color of the moon in
contrast to his lips and his
eyes as if to focus all his
color into the signs of sight
and kissing

still in his tweed suit with
opulant rings elegant but
slightly rugged attire looking
out the window as if disdaining
the sky, an anger of wanting
things to be so beautiful but
being kept down by the world

all the light of the sun
fits into the hole in the eye

he put the honey into
his round thermos to
sweeten his tea

he put his thin spoon
into the jar of honey
and let the ooze just
drip into the thermos

spilling some on the side
which he then uses his tongue
to lick off as all the old men
in the room around him watch
him clean up

the old man said
to the boy sitting
on a park bench
overlooking an
open expanse
of sky during the
rushhour commute

what are you looking at?

the sky, the little boy said

the old man looked up at saw
the first splinters of light cascading
through the empty space of morning
and turning what was once darkness
into a brand new day, and then the
old man said at last

I remember a time when sunrises
were important to me

to the right one has
the autumnal light that
wakes with an abrupt dawn
all the leaves and mists
and corners of the earth
that still lay dormant

to the left an entire
unexplored sea that holds
a thousand unknown processions
a true wonderland of feelings
a man who dares to fantastic heights
gilded forests, gigantic beasts, one
hundred floats each decked out with
the heroes of your imagination and
childhood, big, small, alive and potent.

you start
you get dirty

something in motion
does not see the stars

you start
you go blank

you stop
you dream

The word of
our era


i saw the boy bent over
on his knees drawing with
a sharpee on the pavement
by the bustop ontop of a
triangular thingamajig

i noticed the peculiar blue
hue of his eyes like the dream
of a cucumber in winter

after he had gone i went over
to see what he had drawn and
they were words,

you are so beautiful

she looked much older
than the last time i saw her

the latina princess who makes
sandwiches and coffee for the girls
who are no smarter than her but were
born in the right place and the right
time to be able to go to college paid
for by their parents, like cinderella

she looked much older now
2 years have passed, i wonder
what happened to her, i think of the
ash colored mesas of the plateaus
in new mexico, those shallow hillsides
which were once mountains which were
once coastal seas which were once the
homes of dinosaurs and sea monsters
as vibrant as a bright new summer day

and then I look at her